


Wiping tears (without gloves)

by Positivaklubben



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Based on True Events, Based on the books by Jonas Gardell, Don't ever wipe tears without gloves AU, Even is not from Oslo, HIV/AIDS, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Isak is a Jehovah's witness, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, More characters might be added, Original Character Death(s), POV Multiple, Religious Content, Serious Topic, Time Skips, VERY PAINFUL STORY, Year 1983, gayplague
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Positivaklubben/pseuds/Positivaklubben
Summary: What is told in this story has happened. It happened here, in this city, in these neighborhoods, among the people who have their lives here. In a city where most people continued to live their lives as if nothing happened, young men began to fall ill, fade away and die.It was like a war fought in peacetime.And it was the ones who loved the most, those obsessed by love, it was them who were taken by the frost.





	1. Prologue: Don't ever wipe tears without gloves

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first fanfic ever. I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into, I just hope that I'll be able to finish it!  
> This fanfic is based on the swedish trilogy Don't ever wipe tears without gloves (orig. Torka alrig tårar utan handskar) written by Jonas Gardell.  
> It's a story that has a huge place in my heart and I have so much respect for it.  
> Originally the story takes place in Stockholm during the 80s and the HIV-epidemic. I've changed this to Oslo so it's more fitted for the Skam-universe, but please have in mind that I don't know very much about Oslo and especially not what it was like living there during that specific time-period. So it's likely that I've just made up the names of the places in this story, or kept the original ones from the books even though it's a different place.  
> As for the personalities of the characters I've decided to mix the Skam-characters personalities and traits with the original book-characters' a little bit, since some of them are kind of imortant for the story. I've taken the liberty to make pretty much every male character from skam gay, and will probably do that to some of the female ones later on, something which is very relevant to the story.  
> And I just want to say that this is an utterly painful story (I almost couldn't handle the books) but it also contains several important subjects and I just hope that I can do this story justice here, and I hope that some of you will consider reading the books after this because I think that's something everyone (at least those who are intrested in the HBTQ-community and rights) should do.  
> And last but not least, english is not my native language so please forgive me if this story isn't a 100% grammatically correct.

   It is one of August's finest days and the sun gases over Oslo's streets. But behind the closed windows on the isolation wards there is no track of summer.  
    In one of the rooms lies a man. According to his papers he has yet to reach his 20th birthday, but his face appears to be marked by age. His skin is wrinkled and too large for his emaciated face which is covered by the brown spots that characterize karposi's sarcoma.  
    Although only a short time has passed since he fell ill the cancer is far gone and the man has only a few days left to live.  
    The disease has eaten him up from the inside and he has lost more than half his body weight due to the constant diarrehea. He has even shredded his own intestines.  
    He is alone. No one comes to visit him. He wants it that way.  
    He has lost both the energy and the will to speak. His mind can no longer remember how to form words. But he can still cry and does so often. Because of the pain, the life he knows has been lost and from fear of dying here. Alone.  
    Two women enters the room to change the bandage on one of the man's bedsores. One of them is an older nurse who has been in the hospital's service for a few decades, the second one is a young assistant.  
    They perform their chores in silence. The sick man is lying on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling or somewhere beyond it. He shivers and sweats and his eyes are wet with tears. But he is very quiet.  
    Suddenly the young assistant removes one of her gloves and reaches out toward the man's face. Then she gently wipes away a tear which has escsaped from his eye.  
She does it without thinking, in an impulse of empathy and compassion.  
    The nurse looks disapprovingly at her. And the man closes his eyes but is still crying.

   "I sincerely hope that you plan to use a proper amout of hand rub now" The young assistant meets the hard stare she's given by the nurse.  
    They have just walked through the first of the two doors that isolate every room at the ward. The two doors that under no circumstances are allowed to be open at the same time. Here they dump their protetctive equipment consisting of a yellow coat, mouth mask and _gloves._  
    "If you're going to wipe tears like that to right and left, you need to wear protective gloves!"  
    "But he looked so sad! It must be horrible for the poor man to lie there all alone in such pain!" The young assistant points towards the door they've just walked trough and the nurse can see the dither expression that has spread over the other's face. Something inside of her wants to symphatize with the younger, wants to feel pity for the man on the other side of the door, but she knows that the routines of the hospital has to stand above what is human. It's a hard battle.  
    _But so is everything else here_ , she thinks.  
    She has to keep up the hard facade to teach her inexperienced colleague how important it is to stick to the routines. So the nurse sneers at her assistant.  
    "Don't ever wipe tears without gloves! Or you might be the one to lie in that bed after him."


	2. The house at the top of the cliff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Isak, many years later, will think back to his childhood it's this place he will come to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that this story will contain a lot of timeskips. Sorry if it's a a bit all over the place sometimes.  
> I won't be able to update this story very often since I'm kind of a slow-worker but I hope I'll give you an update once a week or something like that.

   It's summer again and the family has returned to their summer's house. The lonely building thrives on the top of a high cliff. The fjord lies beneath it as it always has. It's old but immortal. If your eyes follows along it's winding path you can see straight into infinity. That's how far you can see from the house at the top of the cliff.  
   "Our very own barbican!" their father says jokingly.  
   "What's a barbican?" Lea asks. Her youthful eyes gleams of enthusiasm.  
   "A watchtower."  
   _Yes it is_ , Isak thinks. He's convinced that he can watch the entire world right from this spot. _God's promised new world_.  
   When Isak, many years later, will think back to his childhood it's this place he will come to remember. This house, and the porch and the dock down by the fjord. And the light, above all.  
   The winter has been defeated. It doesn't exist anymore. Cold and death have been expelled and new life has taken hold everywhere.  
   The house will also come back to life after months in hibernation. When the family unlocks the door on Saturday morning they are met with a damp and obscure atmosphere. The house is newly awake and the time seems to have stood still during it's sleep. Toys are still scattered were the children had left them. A copy of the newspaper _Aftenposten_ is lying on the dining table. It's dated October 7, 1969. That's the year before. Since then Isak has almost learned how to read.  
   Isak and Lea are ecstatic to be back. All weekend they've been running around in the house or along the shore or even up and down the treacherous cliffs. Sometimes they even sneak off to places where their mother's monitoring stare can't see. They chase each other, laughing loudly. There is something about this place that sets them free. Isak can feel the hammering of his heart. Rythmic, loud and alive.  
   This particular evening is beautiful, more so than most early summer's nights in Norway. Marianne is cooking in the kitchen and Terje is cleaning the windows on the porch. That's something he loves doing. Tidy up. Remove stains. Restore. He is a man of order, after all.  
   Isak enjoys watching his father _restore_ things. He imagines that all these items and furniture or even _windows_ are people who have lived their lives in sin, but who now allows his father to purify their souls. So they can all live together in the New world when the time comes. He pretends that he's the son of a hero, even if  he knows that's not an appropriate word to use on someone. _There are no heroes. Only the Savior._  
   But tonight he doesn't stay to watch his father's work. Tonight he's so full of life and _youth_ , and he's playing with Lea and chasing her down until they're both out of breath.  
   The game comes to a break and Isak stands with his back towards the porch railing. On the other side is the abyss. The cliff, and far beneath them the shore and the fjord.  
   Isak calls it the end of the world.  
   "Does it kill you if you fall down?" Isak asks. He throws a glance over the railing. Falling is a sin, he knows that. He who falls has challanged God.  
   _And, it's a long, long way to fall._  
   Behind him he can hear his mother set up the table for supper. He leans just a little bit further out. Balancing. His stomach tickles when he feels like he's going to tip over. He can feel the weak wind make way through his messy curls.  
   Lea joins him by his side to mimic her older brother. She leans out, but she's too eager and hasn't got a good enough grip on the railing, and before Isak can blink she's tipping over for real.  
   But neither Isak nor Lea has time to react before Terje is by their side with a strong  and calm grip around his daughter's waist. He pulls her back until her feet stands firmly on the porch floor.  
   "I think, Isak, that we should avoid finding that out." There was no more to it. His father was right. He was always right. That was one of the things Isak loved the most about him.  
   "Dinner's ready" Marianne's voice is calm. If she witnessed the almost-accident, her voice doesn't reveal it.  
   The four family members settle down att the table and together they say a Grace before enjoying the meal consisting of herring and mash potatoes. Isak grabs the fish with his bare hand and puts it in his mouth.  
   "It's a beautiful evening." Marianne states.  
   It's not a question, and she doesn't get an answer. It's only a phrase that's mandatory for someone to say during an evening like this when the whole family is gathered. Because _it is_ breathtakingly beautiful. The landscape below them and the sunset which right now throws it's last golden beams over the porch.  
   "Can we go for a swim after dinner?" Isak asks as he uses his fingers to tuck a piece of fish into his mouth.  
   "Isak is seven years old, he knows how to use a fork" his father answers. His voice is clear but not harsh.  
   "I'm full. Can we please go for a swim now?" Isak is impatient. His eyes have been looking longingly at the fjord during the entire dinner.  
   "Isn't it too cold? You should wait until tomorrow. It's getting late anyway." Terje says.  
   It's not often that Isak tries to convince his father to change his mind. He mostly accepts his the older's decicions without argument. But this time he tilts his head and puts on _that_ face.  
   "You have to wait halv and hour. So you don't get cramp"  
   Isak nods his head ethusiastically and looks from his mother to his father. His heart swells with love for them.  
   It amazes him often, how his little, scrawny, seven-year-old body can hold so much gratitude within. For his mum and dad, his little sister and this house. Their _barbican_. He feels like he might explode and he _can't sit still._  
   "Go and get the towels from the bathroom while you wait" Marianne suggests, noticing her son's eagerness.  
  Isak stands up in a hurry, but on his way inside he catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the freshly washed windows. He stops and looks. Meets his own eyes, notices every different shade of green, and he lifts his arm as if to greet himself. The rest of the world ceases to exist for a short moment. It's just these two versions of himself, meeting as if it was the first time.  
   He steps forward and puts his palms against the cool surface, leaving two distinct palmprints on the otherwise stainless glass.  
   "Why did you do that?" his father's voice is sharp. "I cleaned those just minutes ago!"  
   "I'm sorry!" Isak apologizes.  
   Truth is Isak is not sorry. He just made one of his biggest discoveries. He discovered his own existence.  
   I'm here, he thinks and smiles. His reflection smiles back at him.  
   A moment he will come to remember for the rest of his life. As the moment when he caught sight of himself.  
   "You'll have to clean that up before you go anywhere" Terje comments. And Isak just keeps smiling.


	3. An eternity long our summer was then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He carresses his cheeks, his face, trying to say I'm never leaving you. You are not alone. He can no longer speak the words the way he used to.

_Ullevål hospital. Section 53. Room 5._  
   Four white walls. One single painting is decorating them although no one ever takes notice of it. Just a few overlapping rectangles which doesn't represent anything or contribute to any homelike atmosphere whatsoever. Hangs there because something has to. For the effort.  
  By the bed stands a table with tops, saline solution, medicines, a vase of red tulips and a newspaper dated March 10, 1989. There is also a juice glass with a straw from which no one has been drinking.  
   A young man lies beneath a pile of blankets. His skin appears to be gray in comparision to the whiteness of his surroundings and he's got a tube sticking out from his nose. It's connected to the IV pole that provides him with morphine, antibiotics and nutrient solution.  
   On a chair by the side of the bed sits another young man. He watches. Tired, green eyes flickers between the bed and the book he holds in his hands.  
   "I'm continuing with a poem by Karin Boye" he says.  
  
   "An eternity long  
   our summer was then.  
   We roamed in sunny days,  
   that had no end."  
  
   He throws a glance out through the window. Even outside it's white. Winter. He wants to open the window. Just a small gap, to taste the fresh and chilly air. But he knows he can't.  
   Everything here is sealed. Isolated.  
   Instead he closes his eyes and imagines it's an early night in may. A feeling that something begins here. The window is not closed but stands wide open and it smells of bird-cherry tree. A summer approachning. How they had waited. Longed.  
   At least until summer, they had said to each other, noses rubbing together, promising each other. Trying. The image fills his body with despiration and a feeling that something is slipping through his fingers. It's been slipping for so long but he just can't grasp it anymore. Can just sit and watch it as it goes.  
   He opens his eyes and he's back. The scent of cherry is gone and replaced with a heavy smell of disinfectant and something sickeningly sweet which he will always come to associate with this room. The feeling of despiration stays.  
   _He's slipping away._  
   And it's not summer. It's winter.  
     
   The sick man's strained breaths can be felt echoing between the empty walls even though they're so weak it's hard to tell if he's still breathing at all.  
   He's at the final run of his life, every muscle and cell within him is giving up even though his run has been way too short.  
   His body is trembling, he's exhausted and very afraid. Tears are streaming down his face like a current but the other man acts like he does not see it. He has to remain calm. Cannot show his weaknes, cannot _break._  
   He wants to hold his beloved. Grab him and comfort him.  
   "Don't cry, my love, everything is going to be okay."  
   But he knows the other will feel his hands shake. He knows he will hear the lies in his voice.  
   So he tries to concentrate on the poem.  
  
We sank in fragrant green  
depths without floor  
and felt no fear  
of eventide's hour.  
  
   His eyes then rests on his beloved. He who is _the man of his dreams_ but who soon will be nothing but an empty shell dressed in a hospital gown. Even now he can se there's so little life left. Only a thin veil that can by carried away by the wind at any time.  
   The man of his dreams has eyes which are already dead but they still flutter worriedly back and forth. He is slowly suffocating.  
    Because the young man who's lying in bed shall die and he knows it. He's terrified to die.  
    The other man swallows his tears and tries to mimic his father's calm and collected voice.  
  
Where did our eternity go?  
How did we forget  
its holy secret?  
Our day became too short.  
  
   He feels as if he's saying a prayer. His own orison only for himself and his beloved, now when he's no longer allowed to pray. Now when he has lost the rights to pray.  
   _I can still pray_ , he thinks. _But there'll be no one here to listen anymore._  
   He stands up to wipe the sweat from the sick man's face. He hears him whimper when the chair moves away, a pitiful plea to express that he doesn't want to be left alone at this point.  
   He carresses his cheeks, his face, trying to say _I'm never leaving you. You are not alone._ He can no longer speak the words the way he used to.  
  
In strife we form,  
In spasm we rhyme  
a work that shall be eternal -  
and its essence is time.  
  
   He then lets his hand travel along the scraggy neck and down across the other's chest. He can feel every rib. He can feel the heart that's still beating.  
   His eyes land on the chest which almost unnoticably rises up and down, like a water whose waves are about to plan out.  
   Then he notices the sick man's hands, which he until now has held pressed tightly into fists, suddenly relaxes against the sheets.  
   His heart falls over the railing. He shouts.  
   "Even?!"  
   A nurse rushes into the room while she fumbles with her protective gloves. It's impossible to read her facial expressions. Her entire face is a blank canvas with eyes, nose and mouth. She has been in this situation many times.  
   "He has stopped breathing!" the man shouts hysterically where he lies bent across the other with an ear pressed against his mouth.  
   The nurse quicly picks up a small mirror from her pocket. She asks the man to stand aside before she puts the mirror in front of her patient's mouth. Her expression changes slightly when she meets the other's eyes.  
   "Yes, he's breathing. Look."  
   A slight vapor is formed on the mirror's glass.


End file.
